


Compass Points

by sheafrotherdon



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Community: artword, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-15
Updated: 2009-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-11 22:43:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/117958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What stirs John deepest is not the sex, not the dizzying relief that surges through his limbs as his hips buck and his body empties, but the sweat-damp quiet afterward; the brush of Rodney's lips against his shoulder; the exhaustion that eases him deep into the cradle of the mattress, the five-point pressure of Rodney's fingertips an anchor at his hip.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Compass Points

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by and written to accompany Newkidfan's incredible video, [here](http://newkidfan.livejournal.com/234613.html). Enormous thanks to Dogeared, beta extraordinaire!

What stirs John deepest is not the sex, not the dizzying relief that surges through his limbs as his hips buck and his body empties, but the sweat-damp quiet afterward; the brush of Rodney's lips against his shoulder; the exhaustion that eases him deep into the cradle of the mattress, the five-point pressure of Rodney's fingertips an anchor at his hip.

*****

"No," he says, and the Minister offers such a pleased, thin smile John almost laughs out loud at the goddamn, fucked-up, movie-villain quality of his day. Almost. He's still two parts pissed-off to one part amused, and the pissed-off part's holding a gun.

"Take them," says the Minister, and John sighs, 'cause this is how it's going to go? The guards are the typical, vacant farm boys that he'd all but swear Nebraska's been exporting to Pegasus since day one, but they move with authority – John greets one with the butt of his gun, shifts to duck out beneath the reach of the other. Ronon's weapon whines; Teyla spins in the margins of John's wary vision; Rodney's still looking lost and maddened, a half-broken crystal in his hand.

The fist that connects with John's solar plexus seems to come out of nowhere.

One more blind spot to add to the list.

*****

A brush of lips against his shoulder. "It never occurs to me you might only be winded. Isn't that strange?" Rodney whispers, sounding strangely formal for all that they're tangled and spent. "Were I to regard the statistical sample I've gathered in the past several years, were _reason_ anything I'm able to marshal at moments like today's little contretemps, then I'd know that all you need is moment to reacquaint your lungs with their proper function and that no matter how much discomfort your bronchioles are experiencing, you're fine, fine, scrambling to your feet and looking for a fight, but it never, ever occurs to me."

John keeps his eyes closed. It's not the first time Rodney's whispered a secret to the sheets. He never betrays that he's awake.

"So if you could, maybe, possibly, limit yourself to oh, I don't know, a dozen such incidents a year, I'd be grateful." Rodney tugs at the blankets, rubs his cheek against his pillow and surrenders to a yawn. "Grateful," he mumbles, and shifts to get comfortable. He settles on his back, as he almost always does these days, knuckles resting intimately at the very base of John's long spine

*****

The stars above New Athos are a bewildering, nonsensical spill to John, but it doesn't stop him looking up to find his bearings, an instinct so deeply ingrained he can't help but glance to the sky when he feels the need for reassurance. That it isn't there doesn't nullify the urge.

"Teyla's been teaching me," Rodney says, materializing at his elbow. "Up there," he points, finger wavering slightly under the effects of Ruus wine, "the Mother, and beside her, the Shield. See the four points and the dip?"

John squints, but it's all just a wash of distant light. "No."

Rodney huffs and shifts to stand behind him, slides his arm beneath John's and raises both their hands toward the sky. "There. Mother – star, star, star, cluster, star, star." He moves John's body like it's an extension of his own, and his breath is warm against John's ear. "And her shield – planet, star, star, star, follow that line, star, star." He hums happily. "She has bantos rods too, but I forget where she put them." It's not clear if the 'she' is the celestial Mother, or Teyla, or both.

It's the Festival of Second Light, something that, near as John can figure it, translates to a harvest celebration, with some older version of Hallowe'en thrown in – respect for spirits, no noticeable candy haul. There's a joy in camp at the turning of the leaves, at the coming of winter, that John's internal compass can't make sense of – they haven't yet spent a full year in Pegasus, but there's enough of Antarctica still lingering in John's bones to make him think of snow and ice and windchills, and he's not particularly eager to reacquaint himself with any of that.

"Guardian," Rodney says, and John realizes they're still doing the star thing, realizes he's leaning back against Rodney's body with his eyes half closed. Warmth, touch, trust, wine – it's been a while since he indulged in any of those things.

He clears his throat. "Hey, buddy," he says, and he doesn't sound like someone pulling away. Probably because he isn't.

"Star, star, planet – green, I think that's . . ." Rodney makes a low rumble at the back of his throat. "PX7-882? Hmmmm. Anyway, where was I? Star, star . . ."

And it's likely the wine, only it isn't, not really, and it's probably the distance they're standing from camp, only John's not sure he could stop right now if he were standing in front of the IOA. He turns, fumbles a kiss to Rodney's mouth, and somehow he knew Rodney would pull back, blink at him, tilt his head and say, "Oh. _Oh_ ," and then surge against him, clumsy and just a little drunk and warm, so goddamn warm.

They haven't been in Pegasus a year. The stars don't make sense and Rodney's not his type, but his type's meant nothing but misery if he's honest, and late-night fights and long-cold coffee spilled on the floor. Rodney's fingers are inching beneath his shirt, grazing his spine, and he'd probably be able to find his bearings if he thought of Mike, or Todd, but he doesn't want to; he'd rather let the compass needle spin.

*****

What stirs John deepest isn't the sex, but a hundred things, all unlooked for; the sound of someone else's laughter; a first cup of coffee without conversation; the way Rodney looks tired when he sleeps. Eyes closed, his lashes a shadow, it's as though there's nothing left to defend him from a workload he can't delegate and four years of familial quiet, laptops that blue-screen and a scar on his arm, a freshman year he doesn't talk about. John blows out a breath, rolls to lie closer, ribs protesting as he moves. He throws an arm across Rodney's chest. It's an imperfect weapon, but the enemies that come with sleep don't answer to his gun.

*****

P32-846, and everyone's so welcoming, so goddamn _nice_ that John's fillings start to ache about thirty seconds into negotiations for a share of the miinta crop. Ronon's hand hovers over his holster and Teyla gets that look on her face that means she's primed for trouble and more than ready to kick it in the teeth.

Rodney disappears – of course he does – and all John can think of are underground cells and drugs and the kind of manacles no one's seen on earth since 1542, every dire consequence the galaxy's thrown at them scrolling behind the opacity of his shades. He signals his concern to Ronon, gets a shake of the head; to Teyla, sees her gesture economically toward the miinta fields. Forced labor, then; he nods and smiles at the council, wanders toward the rough-hewn footpath that leads out of town, begins to jog when he's safely out of sight.

Rodney's standing at the crest of a hill, boots sunk deep into loose, dark earth, the miinta crop rippling in the hesitant valley below. His head's bent over his tablet, hand hovering as he reads each new burst of data, thumb splayed at a right angle to his palm.

"Jesus," John says, relief running clean and sweet through his veins, and he cuffs Rodney smartly up the back of the head. "You think of, I don't know, _using your radio_?"

Rodney scowls at him. "What is your problem?"

" _My_ problem?"

"Yes, yours. And let's narrow the field – what's your problem _today_ , because if I pose the question in its broadest iteration we'll be here all afternoon and I have no interest in staying on this planet any longer than we have to."

John sets his jaw, tries to find a little resolve amid his frustration. "You disappeared."

Rodney stares at him, incredulous. "I followed an energy signature to . . ."

"You disappeared," John says again, enunciating every word as clearly as he can, honing the edge of each syllable until it's dangerous as a knife.

Rodney frowns and then looks away, shuffles his feet just a little. "I . . . well, just . . ."

"You have a radio – use it," John says with a placidity he doesn't feel. " _Tell_ me where you're headed."

Rodney bristles. "I am perfectly able to – "

"Not the point," John snaps, cutting him off.

Rodney looks at him, and the anger he must feel at being ordered around dies into something John can't identify. "Sorry," he says, and John all but rocks back on his heels.

"Huh?"

"I _said_ ," and now it's Rodney's turn to enunciate, " _sorry_."

John can't help it – he grins, and it's a shit-eating grin if ever there was one, he knows the feel of that particular smile, and when Rodney leans in and smacks him there's no way to argue the point. "Sorry," John says, and Rodney points a finger, says, "Fuck off and leave me to my work," and John just snorts, kicks his boot, keeps on grinning.

In the village, negotiations are still ongoing, and John slumps in a high-backed chair, pays just enough attention to be ready if there's trouble, lets his thoughts shift and spin while he waits. It's Herick and Jamus who come to mind, a shuttle tethered to a moon, the Gs of re-entry and his gut-deep resolve to collect on his bet with McKay. He fishes a stick of gum from his pocket, unwraps it and folds it into his mouth; thinks all of the while of how he'd heard Rodney somewhere in his gut, not his head as the landing shook through his body and out onto a planet he'd never explored: _I never took the bet_ ; as big a lie as Rodney's ever told.

*****

Every day, John looks up – to stars that grow slowly familiar; to the ceiling of the chair room; to the arc of the shield that stretches above the city, peppered with weapons' fire made useless, turned from an instrument of destruction into a spill of mesmerizing light. And if the Guardian orients him now as sure as the North Star ever did, it's in part because Rodney's gravity holds him steady.

He flies, regardless of whether the landings are easy.

*****

When John wakes on the jail cell floor, he remembers little that's helpful – jumbled images of Wraith and Rodney, of staring down the length of his arm, his gun an extension of his hand. He curls on his side, a dusty pallet wrinkling beneath him, and presses his palm to the floor as though he's drunk and the act can make the world grow still.

Something sings through his veins, but he isn't high, just exhausted, he thinks, sluggish, tired of his gun, tired of each bullet he dispatches, the grinding necessity of what he does. He's tired of running toward whatever new threat confronts them, tired of the everlasting waste, tired, tired – he stares at the blank wall ahead of him, tries to quiet a mantra he never asked to move in.

His team – the thought drifts up from somewhere half closed-off to him, and that's a better solace. Not here – looking for him; he'd place a bet if there were anyone to place it with. He closes his eyes, wraps his arms around his belly, leans into the pressure and the shivering that claims him, Rodney burning Technicolor bright behind his eyelids, worried but determined – crashing through undergrowth, pushing at the low-hanging branches of trees, Teyla and Ronon at his six.

There are trees on New Athos, John remembers, trees that reach high enough to tug at the Mother's skirts, to polish the wood of her bantos rods as she hovers, protective, armed and furious that her children have been disturbed.

He hums to himself, well-worn tunes as green fades to starlight and a leaf becomes a comet's tail. John sinks beneath the effects of the poison in his system, waits for his team to come.

*****

He wakes Rodney without meaning to, wincing as he shifts positions, trying to navigate some path toward the sleep Rodney's been enjoying for an hour or more.

"Take some ibuprofen," Rodney murmurs.

John thumps at his pillow. "Go back to sleep."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Rodney slurs. "Did I not phrase that correctly? Take some goddamn ibuprofen, you fucking drama queen."

"Jesus," John huffs, but his ribs ache as though, for the sake of argument, he got punched in the gut that afternoon, so he gets up and shuffles to the bathroom, swallows two pills with a handful of water. The bathroom light is unforgiving, shows the thin, white lines of every scar, the scattershot purpling of his belly, and he turns on his heel, purposefully putting out of mind the Minister and Michael and Rodney made silent by a thousand pieces of rubble stacked above his head.

"Take some?" Rodney asks, face down and lax.

"Yeah," John says, easing himself back into bed, curling close to the ordinary miracle of Rodney's body heat. "Shut up."

"Hmmm," Rodney offers and presses his nose to John's left arm.

Over Rodney's shoulder there are stars, constellations scattered beyond the window of their quarters, wheeling in a night sky become unfamiliar again. John stretches a hand toward the Guardian, his fingers clumsy inside insulated gloves, the flare of a burgeoning galaxy smudging the visor on his helmet. "Come on," he says, tugging on the lifeline that tethers him to Rodney. "We gotta go."

"Where?" Rodney asks, his visor reflecting light born a thousand years before.

"Anywhere we want," John says, because it's obvious, beautiful, this orbit in which they're locked, and he wonders if he might glimpse himself, the next time he stands on New Athos' plains; find direction beneath the glare of the sun off his back.

Rodney yawns, fumbles determinedly, takes a strong hold of John's waiting hand.


End file.
